scribblesonbrokenglass

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Ivy

let’s catch sight of ourselves:

bones, brickwork and ivy

getting ever more tangled.

as green shoots descend,

clinging to the structure

of rising walls and rolling days,

then sometime in years,

when vines and stones

are one and the same,

when we both seem to shake

in the frosty breath of winter

and in summer’s dusty haze:

we will see ourselves,

in brickwork and ivy,

grown softer and much older.

#poem #poetry #spilled ink #writing #poets on tumblr #spilled thoughts #writer #writers #love #poet #writerscircle #writerscreed #writing the storm #write #writeblr

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Eclipse

plunged into charcoal singular,

spread across onlooking faces:

the quilted patchwork of knowing

a force of magnitude is at work.

our feeble eyes unable to bear it —

some rebel orbiter shaking up day

into night, in blue moon performance,

in feral wonder and humble fear.

to grasp cold knuckles and squeeze,

as solar night comes in chill wind,

just for a moment quiets the world

and we become stars, passing by.

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Andiamo

hydrocarbon blue burns

leave a ring on my finger

the colour of palladium.

just some token of you:

as the ore was surely hauled,

I’d have dug for you, too.

rare earth soul, recycled

from prior grasping flings —

you rose to the surface

along with the tide water,

flowing with hurried truths

and gasps barely contained

and now swim or drown

as the current carries us

in beautiful strangeness

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Some Stream

A flood came forth

where before only clay,

cold and vulnerable,

had lined the riverbed.

vital and flowing,

bathing dry ground,

its arrival raised

every hair on my neck.

you were in every bend

and ripple there:

just as sudden and violent

and alive between my hands

as the clear rain

that rushed to meet

some wild expectation

of a bigger, bluer sea.

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Same Mistakes

what kind of man?

raising a typewritten militia

to aerate the blood

what kind of man?

grasping the new nettles,

absorbing their poison

what kind of man?

making oaths with crossed digits

in rooms with no lights

what kind of man?

stealing lies from yesterday

this kind of man

#poem #poetry #spilled ink #writing #poets on tumblr #spilled thoughts #writer #writers #poet #writerscreed

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Boats Out

Wild knives of winter winding

Across some antique stretch —

The breeze mutters its regrets.

But this air is honing-rod clean

And the jetty is quite still:

No spite could busy these people.

Rivers are struck in metal contortion

Winding around the land’s neck

And challenging it to dam or drown.

The old shale shore is mute, of course.

Save for its crashing, bay-wide smile,

Daring the old sea to whittle it away.

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Lunar

I suppose the poet is duty-bound

to write all those things

he could not say

when you were well and warm

while you didn’t tremble

faltering and retreating:

the poet now is duty-bound

to make gospel of your courage

reifying fearlessness

and while more space may be empty

your light will help it seem full:

you are my forever echo.

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Haiku For Commuting

Dull thud pulse confirms

tomorrow’s shadowy coming,

its contents unknown.

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Here We Are

I heard a note:

it was an octave in your key

played sharp, played staccato

jolting me from twenty-something

rising-day, setting-sun slumber

with chords in my throat —

each hammer spoke,

hitting a metal thread tied

to something greater than itself.

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Life Itself

So unfathomable to glide,

faster than sound,

through a strange nothing:

never knowing why,

and lost in small joys,

those questions loom,

accelerated, shining

like the globe itself,

encircling life,

peaking, sinking —

a horizon by which

we all rise and fall.

To watch those known

become figures

in some record

or references

we are too young

to understand

is like the wave

taking the past

deep down below.

May our names revolve

and rest on the tongues

of those left behind.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

One Year On

In that shoe-gazing duality between

ego and heart, you battle,

unflinching.

Each correction,

changing

'is' ,

into

'was'

seems to take a strength I can't muster.

*

For such a bluesy disposition,

you seem

to lack the words

to describe

your mind, your soul

and yourself, too,

beyond those sudden, drôle,

wisecracked insights.

*

And your thoughts seem

to flow

like rain,

And, as ever,

I am caught in the storm

In a deluge of self-doubt

and identity,

Coolly flowing from your innermost.

*

But I stand in the torrent,

breathless.

I want to see

what your stoicism hides.

There is something

unreconciled in you:

So unhealed, unheard...

and raw.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Blindly, We Do This Again

There’s a big open sky

and counting every cloud

drifting slowly by

there are younger hearts

arraigning the urge to sleep

so as to see many bright stars

For tonight they go out

amidst more grim gazing

at some old timepiece

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Words Cannot

I wish you

the beating of the bells

and the sonorous birds

with every rising of the morning

I wish you constancy

in the soft sound of gales

in the rush of tires on asphalt

in the softness of her tread

I wish you warmth with every day

her presence grants you grace

poise and purpose

to love yourself

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

A Hope

I remember her wanting to be mum

with all the pain, trying and grimacing,

forcing a smile to make that memory

I remember her being the default,

the absence of a raw, torn-bark rage —

middling, a 5-out-of-10 oasis

I remember the way that regret

always seemed to hang behind —

The endless train, hanging forever.

I know that I still hope sometime

to see that ochred veil fall away,

and for joy itself to wrap around her.



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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

For a Faithful Friend

I held him in my arms

for what felt like forever

and I thought about light:

its waves flow to ends,

waning and gaining

in momentum and time

banking and bending

warping and weaving —

weft into each other.

there comes a day

when our tapestries

take forms of their own:

we recall impressions –

those stitches in time,

a mollified separation

and on that fateful day

no more gentle a love

can be found anywhere.

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[scribblesonbrokenglass]

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